


Pastoral

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Seddi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble, set during TNA and after the episode K is for Kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pastoral

He had not forgotten how beautiful she was – that was impossible. Her beauty had, in his eyes, surpassed all others. He had also not forgotten how strong, how wilful, how free-spirited she could be; he never underestimated her genius, nor the cutting edge of her wit, nor the mind which combined a ruthlessness of temper with a generous, caring nature. Her heart, as far it was ever revealed to him, brimmed with kindness, and it was that, with all the rest in her, that he fell in love with. Perhaps he had in some measure forgotten how thoroughly she captivated him, how deeply she attracted him, how the merest glance of her eyes or flash of her smile had always twisted his heart in knots; how happy it made him to know her, how proud that she was his. He remembered now.

As Steed watched her that afternoon, riding the horse that belonged to him in the yard before his big sprawling house, he wondered how he had gone ten years without her, when even a day now seemed too long a separation. It was not that he was possessive – that part of his younger nature had been banished, along with much else that kept him distant from her – but that the sight of her warmed him, and he felt too cold now without her. Years, which seemed to have piled on his back of late, dropped away in her presence. He knew that was not because of her beauty or her mind or any individual part of her, but the woman herself, all of her, in bad moods and good, in anger and in sorrow, in the quietest companionship and the most heated passions. He did not mind thinking of her now as his woman, though he might have balked at the phrasing as a younger man. She was his. His Mrs. Peel. His Emma.

They rode out into the grounds together, their silence companionable as ever. He was thrilled by the things that had changed, as much as those that had not. They still were capable of communicating without speech, the slightest gesture, most fleeting touch meaning the most. But she spoke more than she ever had before. She told him for the first time her hopes, her desires, her long cherished dreams and aspirations. She described to him her art projects, and her latest paper presented at the Mathematics Institute, the praise she received from Professor Bartle, and in her deep voice he heard the pride in herself, and felt proud for her. She told him also what ended her marriage, of the disagreements, the fights, the anger and the guilt; of the children she did not want, and that her husband did; of the past she’d tried to forget, only to find that it haunted her. More than one night she’d lain in Steed’s arms and cried for the things that might have been, and for the things that could never be. But it was not sorrow or anguish that ended their nights or began their mornings; it was love, passionate, devoted, at times even carnal, but honest as it had ever been. 

Crossing beneath a canopy of elms, Steed watched their shadows dance on ground, his form and hers melding with each other. With eyes raised, he looked on the sunlight dappling her hair its brilliant auburn. He recalled the tickle of her hair when it brushed his cheek that morning, and the gentle kiss that brought him to full consciousness. The soft, eager tongue that twined with his, the supple limbs, strong fingers, searching hands that moved him in their gentleness, aroused him in their knowing touch. Making love with her was still one of the greatest joys he knew, and it delighted him to know she could still find him desirable, that he could still bring her bliss, her cries echoing in his ears, joyfully, for many minutes after. He wondered if she truly knew of the pleasure she gave him, unlike any he had with any other woman; that exploring her body with mouth and hands, hearing her cries and breathy whimpers, feeling her, tasting her; that her mouth on him and her hands stroking him, massaging him, was all the finer because he knew it was a gift she wanted to give.

They emerged from the canopy onto the crest of a hill which overlooked the land that lay beyond his own. There they dismounted, and he admired the way she swung her long legs from the saddle, and tossed her hair in the breeze, smoothing it in an action he recognized from long experience. She walked to the fence skirting across the hill and there she stood to gaze out on the countryside and breathe the fine spring air. For a moment he remained by his horse, not wanting to break the pastoral scene: a beautiful woman enjoying the English countryside. As lovely as he knew she was in an evening dress with make-up done and diamonds glimmering in her ears, Steed had to admit that he preferred her as she now was, earthy, perspiring, her cotton top clinging slightly to her back, her eyes bright and clear in the sunlight. He could see the freckles on her nose and cheeks, the thin outline of her mouth, the scar above her brow, and he loved it all, all that she was, all that she had ever been. He loved even the years they had been apart, for without those years there was not this moment, this perfect picture of his perfect woman. No, not perfect. Perfection was distant, untouchable, unreal. He could not love perfection the way he loved her. He wished he had a word to put to what she was, yet it seemed, as Dante had once expressed on a very different subject, that all language was insufficient.

She smiled back at him and extended her hand, so he closed the gap between them. His arm he put around her waist, his other hand he clasped in hers, and he held her against his chest, close enough that he could feel her sigh. For some minutes they stood, her fingers gently flexing against his.

“I love you, Steed,” she said, and it was without frills, without adornment, as forthright a statement as she ever made. He pressed his lips to her temple. 

“And I love you, Mrs. Peel.”


End file.
